


Has The World Been Kind to You, Soldier Mine?

by Captain_Kiri_Storm



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Brock Rumlow Cares, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Fluff, Jack "I'm Fucking Retired" Rollins, Jack Rollins Needs a Hug, M/M, Massage, OT3, Post-Mission, Reluctant Avengers R Us, Sarcasm, Tired Jack Rollins, rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21612763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kiri_Storm/pseuds/Captain_Kiri_Storm
Summary: Jack Rollins just got back from what is going to be his final mission (he's said this five times already) and he's... tired. That's one word for it. Tired in his heart, body, soul, all of that fancy stuff that Clint likes to talk about. All he wants to do is collapse in his bed.Clint and Brock have other ideas.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Nick Fury, Clint Barton/Brock Rumlow/Jack Rollins, Jack Rollins & Nick Fury, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Has The World Been Kind to You, Soldier Mine?

If Brock was pressed, he would admit that adding Clint to his relationship with Jack was one of the best ideas he'd ever had. Clint was... a lot of things. Vibrant. Exciting. Yet, he was loyal to a fault and it was his borderline psychotic cheerfulness that saved him and Jack. Brock knew that, without Clint's input and his plan, he and Jack would be dead or locked up in the Raft. Dead was the most likely option - Rogers had been out to kill the day. Most of Brock's STRIKE team was buried six feet under and the rest were locked up to rot. Somehow, Clint had enough pull with Rogers that he convinced the big guy to throw them out the window rather than just break their necks. Coming from a guy who went feral when he heard the word 'HYDRA', that was pretty much a declaration of love.

Somehow, Fury convinced Jack to go on another mission. He probably used a mixture of creative threats, promises of rewards, and more threats. Jack, who was the personification of "I'm tired", probably took more convincing than the normal guy. Brock was pretty sure Fury had threatened to send him back to the Raft or send Clint to some third world hell hole where he might get shot at or worse. Jack might not have cared about himself, but there was nothing he wouldn't do to protect those he loved. Brock felt the same about him. He hadn't had the very best start in life and he had to admit, Jack was one of the best things that had ever happened to him. There wasn't much Brock wouldn't do for Jack or Clint.

Fury just couldn't use that card, because Brock wasn't semi-retired yet.

Brock toweled off after his shower, trying to ignore the way his scars caught on the terrycloth. He _hated_ his scars. If there was a way to get rid of them that didn't involve major surgery, he was going to do that. He debated about drying off his hair, but decided against it. That was too much work. He brushed the floppy part out of his eyes, going through the truly insane amount of crap Clint had. Why the guy needed three different products for his hair, Brock would never know. He'd thought he was bad for using shampoo and gel. Clint was... something else. Brock swore under his breath as he stubbed his toe on the tile. Why they had to have tile was beyond him, but he just rolled with it.

"Clint?" Brock poked around. "Clint! Where the fuck didja put my shit!"

No one answered. Brock poked his head out of the closet, finally noticing the hearing aides on the bathroom counter and the off key singing coming from the bathroom. Well, that explained everything. There was no telling where the scar reducing cream was now. Clint tended to lose anything that wasn't his bow - and even that, he lost so many times Jack put a RFID chip in the grip. Brock scooped up the hearing aids and stalked into the bedroom. Clint had dug out candles, the little thing of lavender oil they used if he was having nightmares, and he was doing something fancy with the sheets. Brock leaned against the wall and watched. There was this thing called communication and maybe Clint needed to look into it, because Brock had no idea what the fuck was going on.

You didn't tap Clint Barton on the shoulder. The guy was strong - he'd belt you across the face and maybe break your nose. Brock might have learned that one the hard way. He also didn't want a repeat lesson. That said, Brock needed a way to get Clint's attention. He grabbed one of the pillows Clint had tossed aside and threw it right beside the guy. Clint jumped and turned around, but his face broke out into a slow smile.

"You missin' this?" Brock held out the hearing aides.

Clint made a face. "I got tired of hearing you sing in the shower. Nod if you're done." Brock rolled his eyes, but he nodded. He figured that Clint wouldn't put the dang things back in until he got what he wanted. Clint grinned at him in the way only he could and inserted the things back in. "Great! So. Why are you lookin' at me like I kicked your puppy?"

"Because you moved my meds?" Brock suggested. He gestured to the things scattered around. "What's all this for?"

"Jack." Clint looked at Brock like he was crazy. Or stupid. Maybe he was both, Brock didn't know. "I mean, he's been dealin' with a lot recently, so I just thought we could do this for him. He's got that pain, you know, and he doesn't like takin' the pills. So what I figured was I could give him a massage. See if he likes it or not." Clint turned down the covers again and soothed it out gently. "Maybe... you could help him? Do the thing you do with the oil? Back of the neck? I mean, it helps me..."

Brock kissed his forehead. "For you and Jack, I'll pretty much do anything." He tried to keep the grin out of his voice, but it was hard. "So where the hell did you learn massage?"

"If I told you, you would be on the first plane to DC and I don't think God himself could save you." Clint gave him a long look and shook his head. "Don't you get hot in those things?" He gestured to the sweatpants and long sleeved shirt Brock wore to bed now. Vanity happened to be a curse, but Brock didn't like looking at himself after he'd had a building dropped on his head, courtesy of Winter Soldiers One and Two. They swore it was an accident, but if Brock was being bitter, he didn't believe them. Might not have blamed them for taking revenge, but he was pretty sure it was Josef behind that crash.

"Maybe I don't like seeing butt ugly scars?" Brock suggested. They hurt, too. Brock was supposed to take at least three pills every four hours and for a few weeks, he'd been good about it. Then he got tired of waking up in the middle of the night. He sat down on the bed, trying to think the entire thing through. Jack was going to be home soon. He just hoped Jack would want to do something other than collapse in front of the TV with a beer and sleep for the next three days. He got up again and slipped towards the front door. He wanted to give Clint enough time to get everything ready. It was best to let the archer do what he wanted on his time - the plans in his head didn't always translate well into words.

Jack took his sweet time getting home. He looked like hell when Brock greeted him - his face was drawn and haggard and it was pretty clear that he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. Brock didn't mind. He pulled Jack into a hug and kissed him, knowing full well that he was pretty damn lucky. That mission, whatever it was, could have killed him. Now he was home, where he'd be safe. Brock made a quiet sound, the sound he only made for Jack, and just stroked the shaking man's body. Jack looked like death warmed over. He smelled like it, too. Brock was pretty sure there was dried blood under his nails and filth clung to the rest of his skin. Jack looked bad and Brock was pretty sure that he felt worse, too.

"We have something for you," Brock murmured. He drew his exhausted lover inside and locked the door. "Signed you up for the new program they're offering at the pound. Some asshole dumped a fully trained Dogo Argentino because he couldn't take it on the cheap flights. Clint thought it was a good idea and I thought so, too."

"Why don't you ask me these things?" Jack sighed. He slumped down on the couch and pulled on the sleeves. "I would have liked to give my say, you know."

Brock got him up and grinned. "Dog's gonna be good for you. Her name's Troya. You need somethin' for the PTSD. Clint's got his herbal shit, I've got you, and you'll have Troya. Speaking of Clint, we have a surprise for you." He grinned a little more and drew closer to the taller man. "We want to give you something good, you know. Cause you deserve it." He managed to get the man up and into the bedroom. It wasn't easy, that. Jack was pretty stubborn at the best of times. All he wanted to do was sleep (not that Brock blamed him). Well, that was going to change, because they were giving Jack a treat and he was going to like it. Jack still didn't do much to fight back as Brock stripped him down and got him laid out on the bed.

Clint lit the candles and rubbed a little of that fancy oil on Jack's scarred back. Brock helped as he could. He didn't know much of what he was doing. Clint didn't seem to be in the mood for talking. He just did whatever he did. It was like he was gathering and soothing the muscle fibers, massaging the oils deeper into Jack's scarred body. For his part, all Jack had to die was lie there and make the "happy Jack" sounds Brock knew and loved. Brock decided he was going to comb Jack's hair, even though it was filthy, because Jack liked that. So he sat there and did, enjoying the warm glow just as much as Jack and Clint did. Jack seemed to be melting under both of them and, gradually, the tension melted from his body.

"Even your knots have knots," Clint muttered. "I'll teach you breathing exercises later."

Jack arched his body some as Clint kept kneading and massaging his flesh. Going from the look on his face (and the moaning that sounded almost sinful), it was pretty clear he was blissed out. "Comes from dealing with Rumlow," he grumbled. "Maybe I'll try it later. If you two don't make me turn grey."

"I rather like the grey," Clint teased. He kissed the base of Jack's neck and ruffled up his hair. "It makes you look distinguished." Going from the wink, Clint was getting ideas. Jack didn't seem to be in the mood for much right now, but he needed the relaxation. Brock couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Jack sleep the night. Maybe the massage and the dog were overdue. He decided not to mention that he'd signed himself up for an experimental program with some of the calmer mastiff breeds. When he got an episode, it made his old Lab (Lucy deserved better) freak out. But one of those big mutts? A breed known for being calm? That was what he and Jack needed.

It was what Jack was getting, like it or not.

Jack raised his head and flopped his hand around. "Uh huh. Whatever you say, kiddo." He lowered his head again, sighing some. "Ohhh _yes_. Right _there_." He groaned some, arching his body and spreading his legs as Clint went lower. "That feels so goddam _good_."

Brock drew Jack into his lap and kissed him. Gods above, he was so lucky. "Yeah," he rasped. "Welcome home, soldier mine."


End file.
